Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
For something I hadn’t given a second thought to, now I spend a good chunk of time agonizing over every single potential bit of incriminating evidence. I’m not a careless person by any means, but I didn’t plan to get away with this. If I had planned to get away with it, I would have made deliberate decisions to keep anything potentially suspicious off my phone.
I think I did anyway, honestly. I’m not stupid. But there could be data I’m not thinking about, maybe something the police could access that I’m not even aware of.
I have a lot of time to think about it because they leave me alone in Tor’s bedroom for what feels like hours. It could be hours. I’m afraid to touch my phone, so I have no idea how long it’s been.
One million years later, there’s another knock on the door. The same cop appears in the doorway. “Hey, Cassie. Sorry for leaving you up here so long.”
“It’s all right.”
“A lot to do, I’m sure you understand.”
I nod.
“But now it’s back to you. I’m gonna need you to come downstairs with me. We’re gonna take a ride down to the station.”
As he says this, someone else enters the room wearing paper booties and gloves and carrying clear plastic bags. I watch her walk around the bed to retrieve Tor’s blue T-shirt from the floor. Her gaze flicks to the bedsheets, but since I’m still sitting here, she heads for the bathroom.
They’re collecting evidence.
In his bedroom.
That means they’re looking into our alibi.
My gaze jumps back to Officer Harris. “Am I—Am I under arrest?”
“Should you be?”
My heart sinks, and my eyes widen involuntarily.
He smiles. “No, you’re not under arrest, but we do need to question you further and collect some more evidence to corroborate your story.”
“Should I call my mom?”
“Are you a minor?”
I shake my head. “I’m eighteen.”
“Then you don’t need to.”
“Okay.” I stand, looking around the room. I reach for my purse slowly, in case he’s preparing to tell me I’m not allowed to, but he doesn’t say anything.
I follow him down the stairs, my stomach in knots as the scene comes into view. I try not to look.
“You can go ahead and put on your shoes,” he tells me.
I took them off earlier, when Tor made me undress and give him my clothes. He mentioned wiping down the gun, but I don’t know if he touched my shoes. I guess if our story was true, my shoes would have been in the room when Tim was shot, so nothing they could find on them would necessarily indicate my guilt.
I slip them on now—black ballet flats, not terribly practical, but maybe that works in my favor. Who wears ballet flats to murder someone?
As I’m straightening up, I look around for Tor—and find him across the room. My gaze locks on his like a magnet.
The officer must notice because he lightly grabs my arm. “Come on. No contact.”
“Will he be at the station, too?”
“We’re bringing him in for questioning, but he’ll be transported separately.”
“Okay,” I say, because there’s really nothing else to say.
Outside, a patrol car waits, the back door already open for me.
My heart does a somersault.
This is the most real this has felt since the second before I pulled the trigger.
Licking my lips, I glance back at the cop distrustfully. “I’m not under arrest.”
“You’re not under arrest,” he confirms. “Standard transportation. See”—he nods at my wrists—“no cuffs. And if you were being arrested, I’d have to read you your rights.”
That’s true. I know that from TV.
He gestures toward the back seat, and reluctantly, I slide in. The seat is hard, the space claustrophobic. The cop closes the door, and I know it wouldn’t open if I tried.
Trapped.
I’m trapped.
The thought makes me feel ill, but I try to suppress it. I knew I’d end up here, but it’s like I told Tor—I never planned past pulling the trigger.
I know last summer Tim never had to sit in the back of a cop car. They let him bring himself down to the station. I guess rape wasn’t a serious enough offense to warrant a car ride.
The ride there is quiet, just the sounds of the police radio breaking up the silence every now and then.
I have a sense of déjà vu when we pull into the police station. I remember walking through those doors under very different circumstances last summer.
He doesn’t bring me through the front like I expect, though. He brings me to a different entrance on the side of the building, an ugly brown door with a square window surrounded by painted cement block. A blue sign reads, “No weapons allowed.”
I crack a smile. That doesn’t seem right, but I guess they mean the people like me aren’t allowed to have them.
It occurs to me, then, that coming in through the more secure side door with a cop close by, I’m not a member of the public right now. I’m on the other side.